Black Monastery (13 page)

Red-faced, Harald glared at Asgrim. “Fucking villagers have murdered our mates, and we want blood.” Harald paused for a moment before adding, “Captain.”

“Villagers?” Asgrim let his face and voice show his disdain and incredulity. He shook his head and turned, letting his gaze fall across all of the men. “Is this what you think, that villagers did this? That snot-nosed Frankish farmers captured five warriors and then had the skill and time to spare to skin them?” He paused, and some of the men looked down, to stare at their feet.

Hopp moved up just past Asgrim, bared his fangs, and growled. Several of the men stepped back. Others—including Harald—didn’t.

“Villagers didn’t do this,” said Asgrim. “There’s no gods-damned way, and you men know this to be true. This wasn’t peasants. This was the same horror that killed the monks, the same spirit that possessed my brother.”

“No,” someone muttered. “Those bastards did it, all right.”

Others shook their heads in denial. Harald finally seemed to grasp the danger he was in, or perhaps he just didn’t want to take on Asgrim, because he looked about himself and stepped back, letting others talk.

“We should kill a bunch of them, just in case,” said Ham. “It’ll show them not to mess with killers like us.”

Asgrim cocked his head and glared at the young man. “We should, should we? And how many battles have you been in, you pimple-faced git?”

The young man’s face blanched, and he shut up, disappearing back into the throng, muttering beneath his breath.

Asgrim jabbed a finger at the corpses. “I’ve killed more men than I can count, and I tell you this: men don’t do things like this.”

They stared at the gutted corpses in silence.

“Captain’s right,” yelled Gorm, who now stood beside Asgrim. “There’s evil here, but the captain’ll bring us out of it, take us home.”

“We can fix
Sea Eel
,” said Asgrim. “It’ll take time, and we may have to kill some Franks whether we want to or not, but we can do this. We are the wolves of the northern seas. Nothing is beyond us.”

Some of the men stared at the ground, uncertainty on their faces. Others, though, still glared in rage. One of them, a normally good-natured young man named Hæfnir, stepped forward and spat on the ground near Asgrim’s feet. “This is your fault, kinslayer.”

Gorm kicked him in the balls, and he dropped like an anchor. Several of the men stepped back, but others pushed forward, tensing.

“Enough!” yelled Asgrim. “We don’t have time for this. We have work to do if you ever want to go home again. But first, we build another fire and send our friends on to Valhalla.”

“Listen to him, you fucking idiots.” Gorm grabbed the closest man by the shoulders, spun him about, and shoved him toward the forest. “Go gather some fucking wood, or I will beat you all to fucking death right fucking now!”

Some of the men turned and stalked off, but others stayed in place, still glaring. Asgrim’s hand drifted over the head of his hand ax on his belt.
Heart-Ripper
hung from its sheath on his back, beneath his shield. If it came to violence, he could draw the hand ax first, with barely a thought.

And then the moment of danger was gone. As more men drifted away, following orders, the others lost their courage. Those who remained cast nervous glances at Asgrim and Gorm, then at each other. And just like that, they all began to stalk off, some still muttering curses and shaking their heads. The last two picked up Hæfnir and led him away.

“And somebody get out on sentry right gods-damned now!” Asgrim yelled at their backs. “Before the Franks come on us for real.”

Asgrim sighed and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. That had been a near thing. And the problem wasn’t going away anytime soon. Mutiny was like rot; once it started, it needed constant checking and scouring.

They needed to get away from here, soon, and to get out to sea again. He stared into the trees. But something out there didn’t want them to go.

Seven

The Island of Noirmoutier,

August 3, 799,

Afternoon

Steiner Ghost-Foot leaned against the trunk of a tree, watching the path he and the other raiders had taken from the fort to the shoreline. Asgrim had demanded a sentry position, and this was as good a spot as any other. He could climb a tree to see better, but if he had to get down fast and get back to the others, he would be in a spot. He would be… well, up a tree. He was out of sight of the beach and the ship, but it was only a short dash back to the men if he saw something.

He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be out here by himself while the others worked on the camp. The land spirits on the island were angry and hostile. For all he or anyone else knew, they had somehow angered whatever made this place its home. There were many spirits here, or one great one. Whatever it was, it was angry, terribly angry, and strong enough to kill men.

Behind him, in the direction of the beach, seagulls cried incessantly. He wanted to be back at sea and to be gone from this cursed place. Steiner knew he was as brave as any other man, but this place scared him shitless, and he didn’t mind admitting that. He could fight a man, but the supernatural? No mortal man could do anything against the spirit world. It they were just gone from this place, they would be far better off. But whatever haunted this island, whatever murdered those priests and soldiers… it didn’t want them to leave. Whatever it was, it had damaged the ship to keep them here. Why?

To his front, a pair of thrushes broke from the trees at the same moment. Startled by something, the birds flew off toward the shoreline. Slowly, without drawing attention to himself by any sudden movement, he eased an iron-tipped arrow from his quiver and nocked it behind his bowstring. His eyes scanned the tree line, searching for any signs of movement. It was probably nothing, but he would be damned if he would take a chance here.

Then he heard a branch snap behind him and the sound of someone approaching from the beach. He removed his arrow from his string and slipped it back into his quiver. Looking over his shoulder, he saw two men walking toward him: Harald Skull-Splitter and Koll. Gorm must have decided to send two men to replace him rather than just one, which was a good call. He could have made a better choice, though. Steiner had thought he was going to have to kill Harald earlier. Asgrim shouldn’t trust this one. He was nothing but trouble, always trying to stir shit up. It was too bad Bjorn hadn’t finished what he had started in the monastery.

Both men looked about, obviously trying to find Steiner.

He stepped out from behind the tree. “Here,” he said.

The heads of both men spun about in surprise. Clearly, they hadn’t expected him to be so close.

“Have you seen anything?” Harald asked.

Steiner shook his head. “No, but a moment ago, something startled a pair of thrushes from over that way.” He indicated inland with his bow.

All three men stared off toward the trees. They remained like that for some minutes.

Finally, Koll broke the silence. “Could be nothing.”

Steiner nodded. “Keep an eye open, anyhow. A man can’t be too careful here.”

“Aye,” said Harald. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

Steiner’s eyes narrowed, and he watched the other man’s face carefully as he released the tension on his bowstring and removed the string.

“Talk to me about what?” Steiner asked. “You’re not going to bring this same shit up again, are you? You’re wasting your time. You’re wasting my time—and you’re beginning to really piss me off.”

Harald sat down on a large moss-covered stone. His eyes considered Steiner, and he raised his hands, palms toward the other man. “I don’t want a fight. I just want to talk. That’s all.”

“That’s dangerous enough when the talk is about mutiny,” said Steiner.

Steiner had never liked Harald. The man thought himself far more clever than he really was. And he was always trying to push the others about, particularly the younger men.

“It’s not mutiny,” Harald said. “It’s about this place.”

Steiner shook his head. Dumb shit wouldn’t let it go. He was going to get himself killed. He had no idea how close he had come to dying on the beach earlier. “Harald,” said Steiner. “What do you want?”

“I want to go home,” said Harald. “To Hedeby. But first, I want to make some profit. So far, this trip has been a complete waste of time.”

“The captain will—”

“Nothing. The captain will do nothing. He’s no captain, not no more. His luck is gone. The gods have deserted him—if they were ever even with him.”

“He’s always brought us through every bit of trouble. He’ll do it again.”

“He’s a kinslayer. First his own woman, now his brother. You’d serve a man like that?”

“He had no choice, you damned idiot! I liked Bjorn as well as any other man, but he was crazed. He wouldn’t stop.”

Steiner prided himself on always keeping his anger in check, but now, despite his control, he felt it rising. This loudmouthed fool was going to get men killed. Worse, he was trying to convince Steiner to join him and to forsake his vow.

“Any man can’t keep his own woman, who’d kill his own brother, doesn’t deserve to be captain,” Harald hissed.

“Listen carefully, Harald. You’ve sworn an oath, an oath! You’d damn yourself forever if you break it now.”

“No!” Harald jumped to his feet, his face red. “He broke his oath to us first. He promised us plunder and fame. Instead, we’ve traveled halfway around the world, and for what? Nothing! There’s nothing here but death and the fucking otherworld.”

“You need to trust him,” Steiner said, his fingers once again drifting near the hilt of his long-knife. “Asgrim Wood-Nose is the best damned captain I’ve ever seen. He’ll bring us out of this.”

Looking away, Koll nonchalantly stepped to the side of Steiner.

“Harald,” Steiner said very slowly, “If that fucking idiot friend of yours moves one more step, I’ll cut his balls off. Then I’ll gut you.”

Harald’s eye’s locked on his, and they remained like that for long moments. Finally, Harald looked away first, shaking his head in resignation.

“Fine, stay loyal to that ugly bastard,” Harald said. “But he’ll kill us all.”

Steiner stepped to the side, away from both men. He glanced at the other man, who was leaning against a tree, trying to feign innocence.

“You have the watch,” Steiner said.

“Aye,” muttered Harald.

Damned stupid fools. Steiner walked away from both of them. They would keep causing trouble, he knew. Harald was going to keep stirring up the others until he decided he had enough of the men to challenge Asgrim. And then he would die for the attempt. Asgrim would kill him; Steiner had no doubt of this. But it would cause more trouble. And they would need every man if the Franks came against them while they were stuck here.

His thoughts swirled about his head as he walked away. He would need to talk to the captain about this. Harald had gone too far. If he had the courage to try to convince Steiner, a man he knew to be loyal to the captain, to break his oaths, then he was almost certainly already convinced the others would do so. Harald had sealed his own fate. Asgrim would need to kill him now. There was no other option.

So be it. If this was Harald’s fate, it wasn’t Steiner’s fault.

“Hey, Steiner!” Harald called out from behind him.

What now?

Steiner’s eyes narrowed as he turned back to the two men who were too far away now to pose a threat.

“You had your chance, fucker,” Harald said, a smug look on his face.

Steiner’s eyes narrowed. And then he sensed movement from right behind him and heard the sound of a man stepping out from behind a tree where he had been hiding. Steiner spun about, dropping his bow and going for his long-knife. But he was too slow, and something smashed into the side of his head. His legs gave out, and he dropped to the ground. His fingers still fumbled for his long-knife as Mar advanced toward him, a club in his hand. The club descended once more, and Steiner’s world went black.

* * *

For the second time in a single day, Asgrim and his men lit a fire and burned their dead. Asgrim stood apart from the others; even Hopp, who rarely left his side, had found somewhere else to be. They had set the weapons of the dead men on top of their mangled remains, hoping the spirits of the men would find their way to Valhalla. None of the weapons showed signs of use. If these men had fought back, they had accomplished nothing. Still, Asgrim prayed for their sake that they had died with their weapons in hand, as Bjorn had.

There was evil on this island. And somehow, it was connected to the man the monks had entombed in the crypt: Saint Philibert, the founder of their monastery. First, this evil had possessed the monks, turning them against each other, then the villagers, and finally against the soldiers sent to protect them. It had taken his brother Bjorn, as well, but only after Asgrim had forced him to go down into that cursed crypt.

It was Asgrim’s fault his brother was dead.

All his fault.

Now this same evil had trapped them here. How long did they have until Frankish soldiers from the mainland arrived? A day or two at best, maybe not even that long. They needed to build a wall right away.

But their situation, although grave, wasn’t completely hopeless. They had the provisions they had taken from the fort, which would last them at least a week or two. And eighty Danish warriors was a formidable force, each man a killer. If Asgrim put them behind a log wall, they would hold against anyone foolish enough to challenge them. What other choice did they have? Besides, they only needed to make temporary repairs here and put the mast back up. After they sailed away, they could hole up in some small, deserted inlet somewhere and fix
Sea Eel
properly. This would work. He would make it work.

Asgrim turned away from the bonfire and left the men to their grief and fear. He needed to get them working, to take their minds off the murder of their friends and their situation. He circled his beached ship, examining the ground, picking the best place to build the log wall. He felt the eyes of his men on him and sensed their anger and resentment.